Pain and Coffee Beans
by powerfulmind16
Summary: "Call an ambulance, Sherlock," he called over his shoulder as he crouched down by her face, cringing at the sight of the too tight bit in her mouth, "We're here to help you," he said as soothingly as he could, "I'm a doctor. My name is John Watson. You're safe now." Rated M for adult themes. Rape, sex, cursing, and such.
1. Chapter 1

Inky blackness surrounded her. The room was silent, as it ever was; the only sound that reached her ears was the rasping of her breaths. She didn't know how long she had been in this room, she really wasn't sure if she was still human. She had lost count of the many times her captor had come to visit. She never saw his face, she couldn't. Not in the dark. Not with the way he had fixed her to the cold floor. Her knees and back ached relentlessly, but no relief was to be found. When she had first been brought to this room, gagged, blindfolded and bound, she had been a young woman of 24. She had memories of the smell of different coffees, but she couldn't remember why. Perhaps she'd worked in a coffee shop before she was plucked off the street on her way back to her.. flat? She couldn't remember. All she knew now was the black, the dryness of her throat from the gag that held her tongue in place, and the pain in her limbs. So much pain.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on listening, searching for any break in the deafening soundlessness. Somewhere behind her, on the other side of the heavy door that blocked the light from her, she heard footsteps. Instead of speeding up like it used to when she heard the sound of his approach, her heart slowed. She felt weaker now; her body sagged against her metal bonds. She took slow, deep breaths as she listened to the sound of the door unlocking. Light flooded the room, burning her eyes through the lids. A single tear streaked down her cheek.

"Hello my dear," his voice raked against her mind, "How are we today?" How was she today? The pain in her knees was worse. The bit in her mouth tasted of metal. Or maybe that was blood. She couldn't tell.

Pain flooded her body and she was vaguely aware that he'd kicked her, "I said," he paused for a moment to grip her by her hips and pull her up towards what she knew was his bare lower half. The chains jingled and strained as he pulled on her hips, lifting her knees of the ground for a split second before dropping her down, "how are you today?"

She forced sound from her throat in response to his question.

"Good," he said, more to himself as he pressed a finger into her; the pain was hot and all too familiar "Maybe if you're good today, you can eat." Eat? Maybe she could eat. The thought of food reminded her of the emptiness in her stomach. When was the last time she'd eaten? "And if you ain't I'll hose you down again," he pressed another finger into her, and she knew what would follow soon after, "Maybe I'll hose you down anyway, you filthy slut," and with those words he entered her, she used to scream when he did. Used to cry and beg him to stop. But it didn't matter anymore. He wouldn't stop. He would just make it hurt more. Her breathing slowed more, and she wondered if maybe she'd died. Somewhere she smelled coffee beans, freshly ground coffee beans. The pain built up between her legs until she was lost in it. Pain and Coffee beans.

She was barely aware of misplaced light. Screaming. Loud sounds. The man falling away from her. She forced her eyes to open, blinking in the light. It wasn't just coming from the door, but from the ceiling too. How odd. The form of a man crouched beside her. How odd indeed. She turned her head as far as she could, straining against her bonds in an effort to see the man's face. If men did have faces. Did they? She couldn't remember. The man leaned down to meet her eyes. He was blonde and had a nose too big for his face, but instead of being ugly, it made him look kind. So kind. His eyes were wet and his mouth moving. What was he saying?

"We're here to help you," he said softly, "I'm a doctor. My name is John Watson. You're safe now."

The word 'safe' rang like a bell in her mind. It shattered everything. She was flooded with intense pain and emotion. Fear, sadness, grief. All at once. Then it was gone. The world dropped away. Maybe now she was dead.


	2. Chapter 2

_John's mouth fell as Lestrades men pushed past him into the little room before him. He looked to Sherlock, who stood motionless. Surely he was upset that he hadn't seen this coming; not at what he was seeing. But John was a different man. His heart sank when Lestrade called him in to see the girl chained to the floor. The man that had been standing behind her lay on the ground now, one of the officers had struck him over the head. John didn't stop to see if he was still alive. He shouldn't be. What sort of man does this to another human being? _

_She was chained in such a way that she couldn't move, stuck kneeling. Her head fastened still by a thick, rusty collar with a taunt chain on either side. To keep her from looking around he assumed. Her hands were fastened tightly to the ground, assuring she wouldn't fight back. Her waist and knees were chained together in such a way that she couldn't lay down on her side or stretch out. She was naked, and absolutely filthy. Her long brunette hair matted and oily from not being washed. She had deep cuts and nasty purple bruises from where she'd fought against her bonds. How long had she been here? She was impossibly thin. Her bones easily visible under her skin. A line of blood ran down her inner thigh._

_"Call an ambulance, Sherlock," he called over his shoulder as he crouched down by her face, cringing at the sight of the too tight bit in her mouth, "We're here to help you," he said as soothingly as he could, "I'm a doctor. My name is John Watson. You're safe now." The girl turned her head as far as she could in the tight collar, blood trickled down her chest from the torn skin of her neck. She didn't look like she understood him at first, but her eyes widened at the word 'safe' and he could swear he saw her smile from behind the bit in her mouth. With that, she lost consciousness._

* * *

She opened her eyes in a strange place, a white place, a clean place. She recognized the room she was in as a hospital. The sound of muffled voices droned outside the room door. There was an IV in her arm, dripping a clear substance into her body. She looked around curiously, a bouquet of flowers sat on the chest of drawers beside her; a 'Get Well Soon' note attached to the top by a tiny plastic trident. After closer examination she could see the note had been signed by a John Watson. The name sounded familiar. John Watson. But she couldn't remember why, and didn't have the time to think about it because the doctor came bustling in. He was a small man. Thin and wirey. His nose was long and pointed; his eyes too close together. But his smile spread across his whole face making him look like the happiest man alive. She liked that.

"You're awake! Good. My name is Dr. Hastings," he flipped through a few papers on a metal clipboard she hadn't noticed till now, "After you were brought here we drew some blood. You woke up, which you may not remember, and began to fight my nurses!" He laughed happily as if it was the silliest of things, "We had to sedate you to continue making sure you would survive. You're a very luck woman, you know. You're extremely malnourished. We were surprised you had any energy at all. This," he pointed to the IV, "Will help with that! Loaded with nutrients! We cleaned and bandaged all the lacerations. Miraculously you have no infections. I do have some bad news for you though," he paused and gave her a reassuring look, "Your knees are in bad shape. Completely fallen apart. We can fix that though. A small reconstructive surgery and lots of physical therapy and you should be up and walking soon. If all goes well of course." He flipped through more papers, "I have some worse news. When you woke you tried to scream at us, but not much sound came out. We took a look at your vocal cords, and we are going to keep a close eye on them, but they're in a bad way and if you try to talk they could tear completely leaving you mute. So if you need something, press the nurse button," he gestured to a little button on the side of the bed, "And then you can write down whatever you want to say in this little note book!" The doctor pulled a small blue notepad from his coat pocket and handed it to her, "I'm sure I have an extra pen around here somewhere," he patted his pockets, "It seems I don't have an extra! Here," he handed her the pen he'd had in the little pocket just below his name tag on his coat, "You can have mine. Is there anything you'd like to ask before I leave?"

She looked down at the pen in her hand, then back at the smiling doctor and shook her head.

"Alright! If you need anything don't hesitate to call the nurse," he turned and headed toward the door, "Oh," he turned back to her, "You have a few visitors, do you feel well enough to see them?" She nodded slowly. "Alright then! I'll send them in," he said smiling, and then he vanished.

Visitors? She absently flipped through the small notebook. Who could be visiting her now? Did she have any family? She couldn't remember.

* * *

It wasn't long before two men entered her room. One of them short and blonde with a big nose, and the other tall with wild dark hair and a long, serious face.

"Hello dear, do you remember me? My name is John Watson," the blonde man spoke. She smiled shyly and pointed at the flowers. "Yes," he smiled and rocked onto his toes, "Those are from me. Do you like them?" She nodded and he smiled. The room fell silent. She looked from one man to the other for a moment before pointing at the silent tall man who hadn't stopped watching her since he entered the room. John turned to see where she had pointed and then laughed, "This is Sherlock.."

"Sherlock Holmes," The tall man spoke, cutting off John, "The doctor told us that you cannot speak and since you have no idea who you are there is no reason for me to be here," he turned to John, "I am ready to go now. This girl cannot help us find the others."

"Sherlock! Don't be so rude. She can hear just fine," John turned to her, ignoring Sherlock, "How are you feeling? Can you tell us your name?"

"Don't be daft, John. I've already told you she doesn't know.." She held up a hand, cutting Sherlock off, and opened her little note book. She scribbled something in it and handed it to John.

_I feel terrible. And I don't remember who I am._

John smiled at her sadly before handing Sherlock her note so he could read it, "I'm sorry you feel badly. But you're safe now."

The word 'safe' caused her mind to explode with pictures and sounds. She clapped her hand over her mouth remembering the faceless man. Remembering seeing John. Hearing him tell her she was safe now. Tears streamed down her face, and she reached out to John.

He looked startled, but took her hand, "Are you ok? What is it? Should I call the nurse?"

She shook her head and, still holding John's hand tightly, reached out to Sherlock for her note book. He handed it to her quickly, watching her every movement as she scribbled something again and handed it to John.

_You saved me. I remember._

"Actually," John said, giving to notebook back to her, "It was Sherlock who found you. Without him they never would have found where you were being kept."

She looked at Sherlock, then back to John and he nodded. She turned to a new page in her book, wrote something quickly, and then held it out to Sherlock. He hesitated for a moment before taking it from her.

_Thank you._

She watched him carefully as he read her words, noting that he read them several times before looking up at her. His lips twitched almost imperceptibly, "You're most welcome," he said, handing her the book. She took it back eagerly, turning the page and writing again before handing it back to him. He took it this time without hesitation. She could see his face changing rapidly, the tiny movements of his lips and eyebrows spoke volumes to her; she could almost hear his thoughts as he read what she had written.

_Who am I?_


	3. Chapter 3

_The doctor smiled sadly, closing the door behind him, "She's going to be alright, but there's a long difficult journey ahead of her. It truly is a wonder she survived as long as she did. We'll have to reconstruct her knees, and she won't be able to speak for a while. Her vocal cords are badly damaged from.." he paused uncomfortably, "overuse," he swallowed and gestured toward the room, "You can see her now." _

_John nodded, "Thank you, Doctor." _

_"Perhaps she has some memory of the people who took her," Sherlock mumbled more to himself than to John. They'd hit a wall in the case they were working. Women disappearing off the streets and never heard from again. Sherlock hadn't wanted to take the case at first, but when the first body was found his interest was piqued. _

* * *

John had been sitting at his laptop, his fingers fumbling over the keys as he typed up an entry for his blog, when Sherlock came busting into the room, nearly sending him out of his seat, "Murder, John! This is wonderful!"

"Murder is never wonderful, Sherlock," he'd said wearily. He felt like he had to remind Sherlock a little too often that people dying is not fun. Death is a serious thing.

"Remember the case Lestrade wanted me to solve for him?"

"The one with the disappearing women? I thought you said that was too 'boring'?" He'd turned to Sherlock then, completely prepared for the smile he knew he would find there.

"It is boring. But Lestrade's men found a woman's body today! It's all here in the paper," Sherlock dropped the paper he'd been holding onto his keyboard, "Bodies, John! Murder!"

* * *

_They'd been hot on the trail of one of the people Sherlock suspected to be a part of the kidnapping ring when they found the girl. Sherlock hadn't thought that they would find any of the victims still in town. The kidnapper must have favored this one to keep her as his own... John stopped the thought; not wanting to think about the reasons that beast kept her chained to the floor._

_"Come on then, Sherlock," John said, opening the door, "Let's go talk to her."_

_The room was clean, and everything a cheerful white. The girl sitting in the hospital bed watched them, her chestnut eyes full and shining with curiosity. Her wrists and neck were bandaged, the white of the gauze making the bruises on her body look darker than they had before. She was clean now. Her hair had been washed and combed. Aside from how painfully thin she was and the obvious indications of abuse, she was quite lovely. Her skin was olive and clear, her eyes almond-shaped and bright, her lips were pleasantly plump and pink. _She must have been a knock out before... everything_, John thought. "Hello dear, do you remember me? My name is John Watson." He watched as her lips spread into a smile, and she pointed to the flowers. She noticed them! John silently hoped they'd brought her some peace in this time. He wasn't sure what sort of gift you buy a woman you rescued from a sex slave situation. Sherlock had thought him foolish, but he'd wanted to try to brighten her day. "Yes," he replied, a smile dancing across his face, "Those are from me. Do you like them?" She nodded. John smiled, but couldn't think of what to say next. Sorry you were used as a sex slave? Sorry Sherlock didn't want to save you? Sorry I didn't argue with him about not wanting to take the case? His thoughts were interrupted by the girl lifting her hand and pointing at something. He turn and saw she'd pointed at Sherlock, who was standing silently beside him. Deducing something, no doubt. He forced a laugh, more for his own benefit than hers, "This is Sherlock.."_

_"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock interrupted, cutting John off; he sighed, annoyed. "The doctor told us you cannot speak," Sherlock continued, "And since you have no idea who you are there is no reason for me to be here." John looked up at Sherlock who was now looking down at him with his usual eager we're-on-a-case expression, "I'm ready to go now. This girl cannot help us." _

_John blinked at Sherlock disbelieving, "Sherlock! Don't be so rude. She can hear just fine," he turned to her, ignoring the irritated look he won from Sherlock, "How are you feeling? Can you tell us your name?"_

_"Don't be daft, John," Sherlock's voice drew the girl's attention, "I've already told you she doesn't know-," she held up a hand, stopping Sherlock in his tracks. _

_What a wonderful girl, John thought, smiling at her sudden firmness. He watched as she opened the little notebook she had been holding and scribbled something into it. She then handed it to him. Her bony fingers brushing his as he took it from her gently. It read,_

I feel terrible. And I don't remember my name_. _

_John smiled sadly, hoping to convey some kind of comfort for her in what must be confusing times for her and handed the note-book to Sherlock, "I'm sorry you feel badly. But you're safe now," he said softly. _

_For a moment the girl looked shocked. She clapped a hand over her mouth, suppressing the sound John knew was resting in her throat. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she reached out for him. John hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do, but the terror in the girls eyes was more than he could bear. He took her small, fragile hand in his seemingly huge one, "Are you ok? What is it? Should I call the nurse?"_

_She shook her head and squeezed his hand tightly, John was surprised at the strength she still carried with her. She scribbled something in her note-book again and thrust it toward him, tears still flowing down her face. It read,_

You saved me. I remember_._

_John felt a certain pride at her words. He had saved her. Taken her from that wretched place. Well.. John sighed inwardly. Sherlock had. John just tagged along the way he always did. He knew if he didn't correct her now, he wouldn't hear the end of it from Sherlock, "Actually," he carefully placed the notebook back in her free hand, her other still gripping his tightly, "It was Sherlock who found you. Without him we never would have found where you were being kept." The girl looked to Sherlock, a question in her eyes. John looked at Sherlock. He could see him silently beaming at being recognized for his brilliance. She looked back at him then, and John nodded. Yes. It was him who saved you. Not me. The pride he'd felt disintegrated in his chest as she began writing something else, and then held it out to Sherlock. Sherlock hovered for a moment, uncertain. Not one for people that Sherlock. He took the little notebook in his long fingers and let his eyes linger on the words there before handing it back to her._

_"You're most welcome," he said. She took the book back eagerly to write something else, then handed it back to Sherlock. He didn't hover this time and took the book into his hands roughly, John exhaled loudly and gave Sherlock a look. Be careful. Sherlock flicked his eyes in acknowledgment and turned his attention to the page. John watched as his eyes brightened in excitement. And he knew that this wouldn't be the last time they saw this broken, nameless girl. _


	4. Chapter 4

Time passed slowly after her surgery. Learning to walk again was so difficult. She felt like it was the hardest thing she ever had to learn to do. But she wasn't sure, because she still couldn't remember. The doctors put her immediately on a special diet to gain the weight she'd lost back; her cheeks were filling out and her ribs weren't as prominent anymore. John came to visit her several times a week. Usually alone, but sometimes Sherlock would tag along and ask her questions about herself she didn't know the answers to. They were there when she took her first steps without her walker, and he was there when she made it up the stairs by herself. And she was happy to have someone to share those moments with. She hated not knowing who she was. Not being able to remember if she had family that would surely be missing her. It frustrated her beyond words, but she enjoyed the company of John. Passing notes with him was the highlight of her day. She loved listening to John talk about his cases with Sherlock, recounting how brilliant Sherlock really was. She would remind him that he was brilliant too and he would smile sadly and keep talking. Weeks passed this way, but today was a very special day.

Dr. Hastings came bustling in in his usual way, "Good morning, Sunshine! Guess what! You get to leave this dreary place today!" He smiled happily, "As soon as you get your things packed, you're free to go where ever you like! Would you like us to call you a cab?"

She looked around at the few things she had come to own. Flowers from John; she smiled at those. He refreshed them every week. A stuffed bear he'd brought her too. To keep her company when he wasn't there he'd told her. Some clothes the hospital had given her. And a pair of socks with flowers and little yellow birds on them, Sherlock brought her those. But she knew that John had made him because he stuck them out at her in his own annoyed way, and John had nodded his approval when he thought she wasn't looking. It was John's way of trying to make her feel less alone. And she was thankful for it. She turned back to the doctor and nodded.

"Alright! I'll have the nurse call one for you," he paused, "Good luck, dear. I hope everything works out for the best for you." Then he left her to her task.

She gathered what she had in the large brown paper bag John had brought her bear in; then sat on the edge of her bed. Where would she go? She didn't know who she was, or where she had been before. She swallowed a sob. Who am I?

* * *

It wasn't long before the nurse came to the door and told her the cab had arrived for her. She took a last sniff of John's flowers and then followed the nurse out of the hospital, dragging her feet the whole way. Once inside the cab she wrote down an address in her little note-book and handed it to the cabbie, who nodded and started off without a word. She sat quietly in her seat with her bear held tightly in her arms, watching the hospital get smaller as they pulled away from it. She wiped a single tear from her cheek and took a deep breath. Whoever she was, she must have been strong to survive the faceless man. She sat up straighter and forced herself to smile. She could do this.

* * *

The cab stopped in front of a green door with a golden knocker, "221B Baker Street," the cabbie said in a low, monotone voice. She smiled and scribbled the words 'thank you' onto a piece of paper and handed it to him along with her fare before getting out of the car. She stood silently for a moment just in front of the door, the brown bag containing her life in one hand and her bear held tightly in the other, before she knocked.

It didn't take long for the door to open, revealing an older woman with a kind face and a warm smile. Taking out her notebook she wrote, 'I'm looking for Dr. Watson?' and handed it to her.

The old woman nodded and opened the door wider, gesturing up a flight of stairs, "His room is up there, just knock before you go in," she said, "My name is Mrs. Hudson by the way. John told me all about you," the old woman rested a hand on her should, "Let me know if you need anything, ok?"

She nodded and scribbled her a quick 'thank you' before walking up the stairs, taking her time so as not to fall. When she reached the door above the stairs she knocked softly and waited. And waited. And knocked louder. And waited. But no one came to the door. She panicked for a moment. They're not here! Where am I to go? Before she realized what she was doing she turned the door knob and found it unlocked. She opened the door slowly and peered inside. To the left she saw a bit of the kitchen though the doorway, and when she craned her neck to the right she could just see a fire place with a human skull on the mantel piece. But no sign of John or Sherlock. She stepped in the room and quietly closed the door behind her.

"Good, you're back. I need you to do something for me," she immediately recognized Sherlocks voice and turned toward the source. Sherlock was lying on the couch on his back, eyes closed; his hands steepled together and pressed to his mouth. She took several steps in his direction, stopping just before she bumped into the coffee table. There were papers strewn across the little wooden table, news articles, printed out emails, and pictures of people she didn't recognize. He must be working a case. How exciting! She smiled gleefully and stooped down to get a closer look at the papers. Someone had been murdered. Someone's child? At a church. She scanned the pages she could see for more information, not daring to touch the papers and disturb Sherlock. The father was the prime suspect. Everyone else had alibis. She closed her eyes and imagined herself at the church. She visualized the towering building before her. Heard the people all whispering to each other as they went in. Soon the court yard was empty. She glanced around quickly, looking for the little boy. Listening for him. But she saw and heard no one. She opened her eyes and quickly scanned the pictures on the table. There was a shed behind the church. She closed her eyes again and mentally ran towards the little shed and swung the door open wide. She gasped and her eyes flew open just as John walked in the door.

"Wha- what are you doing here?" he stammered.

She took out her little book and wrote something furiously onto the page, ignoring John completely and, stepping around the coffee table, shook Sherlocks shoulder. His eyes remained closed.

"You won't be able to get him to acknowledge you. He's stubbornly in his 'mind palace,'" John made sarcastic quotes in the air, "But I'm still left to wonder why you're here?"

She rolled her eyes and sat heavily on Sherlock's stomach. His eyes flew open.

"Bloody hell!" John laughed, "I never tried that one."

Sherlock tried to sit up angrily, his eyes ablaze, "What do you think you're doing?"

She ignored the threat in his tone and held her note-book to his face. He tried to ignore the little book and stand up, but she wouldn't let him ignore her. Not right now. Not after what she had seen. He smacked the book away when she brought it back up to his face, giving him a pleading look.

"Sherlock, just look," John said, finally, having had his fill of watching Sherlock struggle against the tiny woman on his stomach.

Sherlock huffed, "Fine," and snatched the book from her.

Satisfied, she stood up and went over to hug John around the neck. As quietly as she could, so that John could just barely hear her, she whispered, "I had no where else to go," into his ear.

John smiled, and broke away from her hug, "Well you can stay here with us. Is that alright Sherlock?"

Sherlock was standing by the window in the far side of the room now. He was studying the words on the little paper, and didn't seem to have heard John. She could see his face twisting in disbelief as he whispered the words to himself over and over, "How did you know this?" He demanded, flying across the room and grabbing her by her shoulders. She flinched at the sudden closeness of his face to hers, "How did you know the gardener did it?" He let her go and began pacing rapidly across the floor, "Of course he did it. Of course," he mumbled to himself. His head snapped back up to her, "I asked you a question," he hissed.

She motioned for her note-book, which he hurriedly gave her, and then wrote something in it.

Sherlock snatched it away roughly and poured over the words she had written. First he laughed. Then he looked over the page again and shook his head, "I'm going to go see Lestrade," he grabbed his coat, handed her back her note-book and headed for the door. He turned to her just before he opened the door, "We are not done here," he said; then he was gone.

"My god, what did you write?" John asked, surprise written across his face. She shrugged and handed him the book. John's eyes widened and he laughed loudly, "Yeah. That'd do it," he said, "Are you hungry? I'm going to make some tea." She nodded and smiled, taking the book back from him before he went into the kitchen. What had she said that had made Sherlock so mad? She looked down at the words on the page,

_I just looked at all your papers._


	5. Chapter 5

_John watched the small, frail girl across the table from him; her eyes flitting around the room as she pushed her breakfast around her plate. He knew she was waiting for Sherlock to make an appearance. She had taken an interest in watching Sherlock work since she moved in with them a week ago. She spent most of her time, when Sherlock was home, curled up on the couch; eyes trained on him, watching. For what? He wasn't sure. But he knew Sherlock was a interesting person to say the least, and if he distracted her from her miserable plight, then good. He sighed, lifting his dishes off the table, "I'm sure he'll be around in a bit," he said before walking to the sink, "He's just gone out for a bit of air I'll wager." The dishes tinkled lightly as the warm water from the tap ran over them, washing away the scraps of food, "Would you like to do something just us while you wait?" He turned to her now, a hopeful smile dancing across his lips. She nodded and wrote something in her little book. She stood and offered him the page, smiling. It read,_

What would you like to do?

* * *

The light breeze caught her hair, spinning it in a slow waltz around her face as they walked. John had asked her if she'd like to get a coffee with her. She'd obliged; though why he'd suddenly gotten a diminished look about him she couldn't tell. They made their way toward the cafe slowly, side-by-side along the busy street; cars zooming past and a thousand different sounds floating through the air. She shivered, the stimulation made her eyes hurt.

"Are you cold?" John's voice called her back from her thoughts, "I can give you m-" She cut him off, gesturing that she was alright. He looked at her sceptically, but said nothing more. The cafe wasn't far after all, and she really hadn't been cold. Just.. she wasn't sure what to call it. She had seen Sherlock make the same movements when he was wrapped warmly in his soft purple scarf and Belstaff; he sort of flicked his eyes off to the side, his head following them just enough to make his curls bounce. She recognized it immediately as him seeing too much all at once. But not enough. Sherlock was odd that way; his need to not miss a single detail often had him constantly overloaded with detail. She spent hours watching him, trying to figure out how he managed not to have a mental break down. Surely his head must be swimming with information. How did he organize it all? They walked in silence as she mulled over the mystery of Sherlock Holmes; she barely noticed where they were as thoughts cascaded through her mind. She scolded herself, knowing that Sherlock would be able to keep track of where they were and what every person on the street was wearing while deep in thought. Damn him.

* * *

Reality snapped back into place when she heard the chime of the cafe door as John opened it for her. She nodded her gratitude and stepped passed him into the cafe. It was warm and smelled safe, familiar- of coffee beans. She scanned the room slowly, trying to take in every detail of the people huddled around their tables. It hurt her brain.

John chose a booth in the front of the building, overlooking the street, "Thanks for coming out with me," he said smiling.

She smiled back.

* * *

They sat in the cafe together for what felt like hours; talking and laughing until all the pages in her little book were filled up.

"We just got you that new one!" John laughed, "Have we been here that long?" He gazed around the room, "Would you like a biscuit?"

She nodded, scarcely aware of John leaving the table. Her gaze was drawn outside by the sounds of an ambulance siren, and then held there by the many different faces on the street. Her eyes flicked from one face to the next, taking in as much detail as they had to offer. A distinct pressure formed in the back of her head, pressing against her skull with each face she searched. Each story she read from the specific lines around their mouths, each wrinkle spoke to her stories of where they had been and where they were going, it all made her mind feel impossibly full. Just as the pressure in her head was becoming too much her eyes rested on a man walking briskly along the sidewalk, weaving in and out of the oncoming line of people, his right hand resting on what she knew to be a gun. His eyes were small and intense, the lines on his face told her things she didn't understand. It was a jumble of hate and rage and hurt and regret. Which weren't strange things to see on a man's face, by any means. But something about it- She shook her head and switched to a new face. A tall man, taking long, purposeful strides. his hands tucked snugly in his Belstaff- she blinked. Yes. How had she not seen it at first? She should have recognized the brisk pace of Sherlock immediately. She cursed herself under her breath just as John sat back down and carefully placed her biscuit in front of her.

"I hope you like this," he paused, taking a bite of his own, "I realized a bit too late I'd forgotten to ask which you'd like." She smiled and raised the pastry to her mouth.

Then it was gone. And so was John. And the cafe. She looked around, blinking to adjust to her new surroundings. She recognized the angry man from before, he was walking faster now, his gun out. His lips moved angrily; she didn't have to hear him to know what he was saying. A woman in a lavender sweater pushed by him, stopping abruptly and turning back to him, her eyes trained on the weapon in his hand. She looked as if she would scream, but she didn't get the chance. The man swung his hand around and caught her in the temple with the butt of his gun. She crumpled onto the floor like paper. He raised his gun again and let fly a single bullet. She watched, in slow motion as the bullet found it's mark in the back of Sherlock's head. His legs buckled underneath him as he fell, landing heavily on his face. She screamed, her hand flying to her face.

* * *

John was watching her, concern written across his brow. Her lip throbbed as she realized that she had hit herself in the mouth with her biscuit. "Are you alright?" he asked, handing her a napkin, "You left me for a minute there."

She nodded quickly and began looking for a clear space in her notebook, she needed to tell John what she had seen, but each page was full. Even the corners had writing on them. She threw the useless thing across the table, her heart racing. She knew she must have looked absolutely insane to John.

"What's going on?"

She tried to force words out of her throat, but they came out in a series of odd mumbled squeaks. She had been practicing whispering, but she wasn't ready for warning people of danger. Giving up, she slid hastily out of her seat and ran to the door, leaving John confused at the table.

Out on the street, she looked frantically for the man. He must have passed further now- Her feet were carrying her as fast as they could down the street scanning the faces for the one she needed. A woman in a lavender sweater stood out from the rest. _Oh no._ She stopped, turning just in time to see the man raise his gun. Sherlock was just ahead now, completely unaware of the danger behind him.

She felt as though all the air had been sucked from the world. Everything moved in slow motion, her heart thundered in her ears as she watched the lavender woman fall to the ground at the hand of the gunman. He turned back to Sherlock. What could she do? She couldn't reach him in time and even if she did..

Pain bubbled in her throat, burning at first, then tearing. Before she'd been able to stop herself Sherlock's name came screaming from her chest. He stopped then, and turned to her just as the sound of gun shot rang through the air.


End file.
